TP

As I have mentioned before, there is always something interesting (often in that this-is-incredibly-stupid interesting way) in the San Francisco Chronicle. This week the interesting thing was NOT that the Chronicle is losing millions of dollars on publishing their paper, because frankly, who is making money these days in newspaper publishing? The interesting thing was an article on Toilet Paper. Yes, apparently this is important news. Why?

This was critical news because it was a Wednesday (and evidently an excruciatingly slooooow news day) and some ridiculously savvy, quite observant and ran-out-of-ideas reporter determined that what we really wanted to know about was American's penchant for really, really soft white TP. According to the article we LOVE TP. We like to use a lot of it. Double rolls, giant rolls and super giant rolls (which as an aside DO NOT fit in to the recesses in the wall designed for TP in a house built in the 1940's. Strangely, the girth of TP rolls has swelled substantially since this construction period). American wipers prefer their 4x4 paper sheets to be cushiony soft, with lots of air bubbles blown in to them or tiny little quilt patterns impressed in their 400 count softness. TP has gone the way of sheets. No more are the basic sheets good enough for anyone. Cotton count must be extraordinarily high. We love it. We just frickin can't get enough of it.

Don't get me wrong. I am fully ensconced in the camp of liking soft toilet paper. Having lived in a few countries that do not prefer their TP to be soft, I can personally attest to its level importance in daily-life-satisfaction-levels.

While living in Frankfurt, I believed that I had cracked the nut as to why German's are often perceived to be a somewhat gruff and querulous people. After uncovering the crux of the issue, I now submit that they aren't just perceived as being grumpy. They are in fact perpetually irritable. Why? Toilet Paper, of course. Think about it for a minute. Imagine having to wipe the most sensitive parts of your body regularly with little brown pieces of scabrous sandpaper. Now get up every day and put a smile on your face. Not likely. Change the TP, change the attitude.

I have applied this philosophy for other countries as well. Take SE Asia for example. In most remote locations, there is often a lack of TP altogether. What you have are: hole in floor and access to water. Now, while this is not optimal in the western sense, these folks are not surly. They are relaxed. Why? Because of the nice soothing water and the absence of harsh or coarse materials near their privates. Tender treatment = happy people.

And finally, let's talk about Japan. For a big city, Japan is by far one of the cleanest cities to dwell. This goes right down to the toilets. No matter where you are, and this applies to toilets in the subway (Yes, the subway), the toilets are clean. I'm not talking about eat off the floor kinda sanitary, but at least you can always go in and if you can't train your kids to hover effectively or for a long enough period of time, you do not have the immediate problem of getting them to a medical facility for a "silkwood" scrub down. I would rate the TP in Japan at mid-range. Not too soft, not too coarse. It isn't always available in the toilets though. They do, however, often hand you little packages of it as you are walking down the street. Yup, this is considered one of the premier advertising schemes. TP in most months, fans in the summer. So, the paper itself is moderately comfortable, it is provided to you free and the bathrooms are clean. All factors = mainly serene people. (footnote: this does NOT apply to the Japanese folks hanging out in Roppongi on any evening. This is a completely different story for a completely different post)

But, then we get to the US and my argument falls apart. It does not work in the US. If it did, we would be so unbelievably blissful! Someone would need to find a way to tether us all to the ground since our euphoria would be so great we would float away in to the atmosphere. In the US we have access to unbelievable soft wiping materials. Walk in to any grocery store and you will find an entire aisle devoted to singing the praises of no less than 30 brands, makes and styles of TP. It's almost too much to bear. Buying TP is like having to decide on new car options every time you shop. Seat warmers? Auto-defrost? Quilts? Little Bears or little angles? Amazing. US toilet paper is so velvety that there are now commercials dedicated to letting us know that sometimes it's so damn downy that little pieces of it can stick to your ass. In other words, dial down the silkiness a bit and buy OUR product that's still chalk full of heavenly softness, but tough enough that it doesn't leave lint in your crack. But are we a happy people? Nope. We are not. We are an ungrateful complaining sort. "Find and exploit the Negative" - - that's our motto.

Still, I'm leaning towards the hope that my TP philosophy really does work. It's just that as American's we have just gotten WAY too comfortable with all the crap that we've got that we've got nothing to want for. In other words, maybe there's a negative effect in attitude when the TP is just too velvety. You know, the whole "too much of a good thing" adage?? So, I have an idea. Let's borrow some TP from Germany.

That's right. Take all the downy soft quilted triple rolls off the shelf and put in some good old German cheap stuff for about 6 months. Let everyone suffer through a half-year of red irritated butts. This will be the main focus of our lives. When your ass hurts - it's hard to complain about much else. Folks will no longer complain about the economy, the job-less rate, the whole here-we-go-to-hell-in-a-handbasket issues. Newspapers will be filled with stories of ragged sphincters and how to correct the problem. In the meantime markets will correct naturally, chicken little will stop screaming that the sky is falling and the republicans will start to love the democrats (couldn't resist that one). When we put the nice stuff back (having surreptitiously pulled back on the throttle of softness a wee bit)... voila!! Immediate attitude adjustment with in acceptable ranges for countries with soft TP. Moderately soft quilted = calm and contented Americans. Hand me the Nobel.....



p.s. The article was actually about the fact that US toilet paper cannot be made from recycled paper and therefore was a BIG drag on global warming. Softness = lack of rain forests. From now on be informed. Wipe your butts with your own conscience. Not only is it affecting our ability to perform as a contented nation, we're destroying the earth as a result. Crap.

My Home Boyz

On Sunday night, the boys decided that a little photo op was needed to show their most fierce Asian gangsta member faces. A quick contemplation of this picture leaves me with the indubitable conclusion that there isn't a whole lot to fear here. Assuming that they were total strangers and I stumbled across them vandalizing some random local property, I would fearlessly approach them, quickly flick them both on the forehead and inform them, in my most pedantic motherly tone, that they were grounded. This would be opposed to say, some really fierce looking gang members where I would be more likely to cross the street, clutch my car keys in the classic eye-poking-out position while averting my eyes lest they think I could ID them in a post attack line-up through my my own battered black eyes. With these two guys of mine, I might even grab them by the ears and drag them home to their mommas... You go my fuzzy bears: Henizzle and Geoizzle..



In other news, we have been without internet service since Sunday. Over the past few days I have had the opportunity to reflect on how dependent I am on electronic access (regardless of how crappily slow our connection is). I have been unable to do the following CRITICAL items:

One. Live my life vicariously through other people's lives on various blogs, emails and facebook.

Two. Satisfy my essential need to complete the crossword/Sudoku/Playfour on various on-line newspapers (please note I don't necessarily read the news there - - I just do the puzzles. I would also add that doing the puzzles at the beginning of the week is pivotal to my self esteem for the remainder of the week. Beginning of the week puzzles = easier = feelings of contentment and success. Later in the week puzzles = more difficult = lack of success and feelings of abject worthlessness)

Three. Respond to life-or-death emails from the school on issues such as what I want to bring for the pot-luck meeting on Thursday night, or donations for the school auction in April. (O.K. technically I could respond to these emails via my blackberry, but I am woefully inept at typing anything other than "lk342 lk03na *7hskj" on my tiny little key board. Weirdly, when I was a working stiff I could punch out incredibly long missives including font changes differentiating between "nice boss" type and "mean boss" type. I was proficient. Now I am maladroit. Like I said, weird).

And last, order a new grill cover since ours blew away during a recent wind storm and cannot be located in any of our neighbors back yards. It is likely somewhere in San Jose or choking an endangered aquatic mammal to death in the Pacific ocean.

I have also been unable to do some less-than-urgently-important things like - take care of my year-end health care spending account and re-enroll the boys for school next year. (yes, I know that these should take precedence over the aforementioned items. But, we're talking about things I want to do versus things I need to do. See the difference?)

And, so as to mention the obvious - - not having internet meant that I needed to: a) Dial AT&T for help; b) Come to grips with the reality that my idea of "help" (aka ASSISTANCE) was clearly not AT&T's definition of "help" (aka Provide-unlimited-doses-of-frustration); c) Spend 47 minutes in the que waiting for said "help"; d) Realize that those 47 minutes of static laced hold music were a total waste because the person on the other end of the line spoke English with the same level of fluency as my dog Otto; and e) Be told by the person with limited language proficiency that I now needed to talk to another department whose wait time was, in her opinion, much shorter. She was accurate that the wait time to get a "person" was shorter. She was way off on the amount of time that person (admittedly one that spoke our native language) would put me on hold while trying to figure out the problem only to finally get back on the line 30 minutes later to tell me that he was going to have to open a trouble ticket and that a line manager would call me back in 20 minutes so please don't use your phone between now and then since they don't have the capability to call me more than once. Yup. That's helpful.


Good news is that we have internet back on line. Other good news wrapped in bad news is that the speed of internet service that we have been paying for is not that which has been being delivered. This means that I may be able to quit yarping so mightily about US internet speed. But, guess what - - I got me another "Problem Ticket YN74DX0" outstanding. I cannot use my cell phone for the next several hours while I wait for them to call me back. I have decided to send my home boyz over there to rough them up about this issue. I mean, if you've got homies - - you may as well use them.

Up and at 'em

When Shannon was small, I used to wake her up in the morning by cheerfully chirping, "Up and at 'em." Several years ago, I guess she heard the phrase again and realized what I was really saying. It was discovered that for many years she thought I was ushering her in to the morning by brightly shouting "Up and Adam!" Turns out that for a dreadfully long time she has been secretly wondering who the hell Adam was and what did he have to do with getting up in the morning. Funny girl. I was reminded of this yesterday when I was clearing photos from my cell phone.

The boys occasionally requisition my phone and take shots of random things like floors or car tires or the branch of a tree. Yesterday, as I was cooling my heels in The King Coffee Shop (where I hang for an hour while the boys do their Kumon twice a week) I was bored and remembered that I could use that time far more effectively than to purchase and then eat the oatmeal-raisin cookie that was screaming my name from behind the counter. Yes, I could occupy myself by deleting stupid photos from my Blackberry. I came across this one and I laughed right out loud in the coffee shop. Sadly, I may not be able to go back there again since I have now likely earned myself the moniker of crazy-person-who-laughs-loudly-at-nothing-that-anyone-else-can-see. Damn, cause those cookies are really very yummy.

I took this photo of Henry several weeks ago at around 7:00 in the morning. I know it was taken several weeks ago because he still has a whole head of hair versus the now stubbly short hair he has been sporting since the head shaving lice incident.

I snapped this minutes after after I had been bellowing up at him to:

GETDOWNSTAIRSNOWWENEEDTOGETTOYOURORCHESTRAREHEARSALBY7:45OR WEAREGOINGTOBELATE!!

I figured I would diffuse the already tense, and becoming tenser, situation by taking a photo in lieu of say pouring his un-pictured cold milky cereal over his sleep tousled head.

The result is an image that is HIGHLY representative of what Henry looks like in the morning. It captures, in utter perfection, the essence of Henry "I am not a morning person" Wisniewski. Had the camera been turned back on me it would have presented the lunatic look of a Mom who plainly doesn't have the right skill set to deal with a cranky 10 year old in the early morning hours. Especially when said Mom had already lovingly made the entirely ignored and unappreciated mug of hot cocoa you see next to him.

Oh, and we were late for orchestra where he did arrive with his hair looking exactly like it did in the picture. He was wearing the clothes that he is shown resting on. I believe I had to wrestle him in to them. Classic.

The SFS Bears

Last week George the Younger's sixth grade basketball team made it to the finals. They were 8-1 heading in to the semi finals. They won their semi-final game in a nail-biting-down-to-the-wire match. They were tied at the half and scored the winning points in the last 50 seconds of the game. Talk about some happy kids when that game was over!

Unfortunately the finals didn't go so swimmingly. They lost miserably. 30-high to 20-low (I am sure George the Younger could tell you the exact score. It will be burned in his memory as only one of those it-was-totally-unfair-they-were-teenagers-and-we-weren't-moments can be).

They played against a team called Live Oak. They shoulda been called Giant Redwoods. These kids were HUGE. They were 7th graders, but according to the league rules they were still allowed to play in the 6th grade division. Still, they were unnaturally mountainous even for 7th graders. Now, I can't say for sure, but I harbor some suspicion that they have some kind of genetic engineering program over there at Live Oak. Perhaps their snacks are laced with highly potent growth hormone. They looked more like our coach than they did our kids. When one of their gargantuan players stood on the line to make his free throw, I saw arm pit hair when he tossed off the shot. And you know what that means? Arm hair = other hair. Our little baldies were playing against bigger kids with willy hair. Uh Oh!

In the end the Bears couldn't adjust their passing game to the immense wing-span of Live Oak and rebounding was like watching 5 Shaq's playing against an opposing team of Lilliputians. It was gruesome. It was fodder for a Brother Grimm story. I suppose there must be some kind of moral here though. I wracked my brain in the car on the way home to try to think of it, some sage wisdom or words of comfort for him. I came up with: Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. How's that for creative insight? Stick to the oldies I always say. I also took him to The Great Steak Escape for dinner. There's nothing like a cheese-steak and a rootbeer to take away the sting of defeat.

We got Rain

We are finally getting some much needed rain here in the San Fran area. After daily news stories shouting loudly about our impending water rationing - it looks like we have added a couple o' inches to our dwindling reservoirs. Somehow I doubt these few days of rain will be the answer to our prior pleading to the Gods of Cloudburst for water - - please send rain!! - but who knows. Perhaps it will keep raining for the next couple of weeks and all my neighbors will rejoice that their lawns will be saved. Not that rain means anything to them.

After a full day of rain yesterday and the day before and the day before, I caught a non-downpour moment to get out and walk Otto last evening. I observed that not one, but two, of my nearby neighbor's sprinklers were busy watering their already sufficiently drenched lawns. So much for the filling up of the reservoirs. Me thinks that the folks here in the Wood don't really give a wet mole rat's hide about rain or lack thereof. A green lawn trumps all. Dopes. I'm sure they walk by my lawn - which is currently a combo of green and light brown - and snidely comment that it would look a whole lot better if I just ran the sprinklers.

In other news, today is the last day of a four day no-school weekend. The rain did put a bit of a damper on getting everyone outside - but it was also a convenient excuse not to do a damn thing. We did try to go to the movies once, but it was sold out. The nice thing is that my guys are getting old enough that we don't need to don layers of foul weather gear to take them out for a walk any more. They are past their puppy stage and running them around to burn off excess energy is no longer a daily requirement. This is not to say that a little exercise doesn't do them good, but it isn't compulsory now. We can send them downstairs to become immersed in Wii - and it works just as well.

Truth be told, all the boys mostly hung out upstairs on the computers and played some game called "Ghost Recon". This means that I have listened to "Follow ME!", "He's got a grenade!", "Where ARE you???", "HEY!! I'm on your side. Why are you shooting at me???" for the better part of two days. Meals were opportunities to recount countless dangerous missions and how many times they killed bad guys or were killed by bad guys (or by each other). Heartwarming. I tried to get them to play something more interesting like Dominoes with me - - but many eyes rolled in unison. To be fair, George the Elder lamely tried to convince the boys that a non-combative game would be nice. But, in the end, they played mercenary fighters and I was afforded some time to myself to watch ice skating on TV. Nothing like watching a few triple axles or salchows end up badly. Cause after all - isn't that what we're all waiting for? Skaters sliding akimbo on their butts? That's what rainy days are for.

Wily Sister

Yesterday I got an email from my sister. She sent along this photo. She says she climbed a mountain in Africa. But, this was obviously taken in front of one of those totally cool high tech green-screens inside a Universal Studio ride. What makes it so unbelievably realistic is that they had all the cool climbing gear (in her exact size), and a frosty wind machine to make her cheeks pink (just like on a real mountain summit), and they made her run for 2 hours uphill on a treadmill at the crack of dawn to get that just-finished-scaling-an-incredibly-steep-mountain-in-Africa in the wee wee hours of the morning look! Isn't it oddly realistic? It truly looks as if she physically climbed Kilimanjaro and got to the top of Uhuru Peak in Tanzania.

It's strange since she did mention a few times that she was "training" for some adventure or another - - and she did send a couple of odd emails about how she was leaving for Africa - - and she did post some emergency contact information surrounded by some blather about "just in case I run out of oxygen or slide down the side of a steep slope due to faulty ropes and ill prepared sherpas." What a great set-up, eh? She's wily, that sister of mine. All that prep work just to head to Florida to bask in the sun, play golf and spend the day at Universal at a photo shoot. Like I said, she's wily. Really wily.

So, to my super-adventurous sister I submit the loudest "YOP"! to you all the way to the continent of Africa!! It's an amazing accomplishment! You're the best big sister anyone could ask for. All that - - and you climb mountains too. I'm no where near even the tiniest bit surprised.

We are a model family

Over the weekend, we got the annual Cloz catalog. This is the vendor that sells all manner of required gear and clothing for the boys' summer camp. Cloz assists you (the parent) in successfully obtaining all the items listed on the very detailed four-page-Packing-List so that they (your campers) are sufficiently outfitted for their weeks of camp activities.

Truthfully, what this catalog really is is an opportunity to shell out $1000 on t-shirts, shimmer shorts, and sweatshirts bearing the required Camp X insignia. Camp X gear is mandatory. Apparently, only if campers are sporting the camp logo on a daily basis can they effectively bond with their camp mates and achieve the Camp X spirit that will foster them in to manhood full of high ideals and solid values. Only in a Camp X t-shirt will my sons truly embody the soul of the camp. Yup, alrighty then.


This will be my boys 4th year at Camp X. One would think that after 4 years of spending $1000 on camp wear we would be enjoy at least one year where we would have enough miscellaneous camp crap (I mean wonderous things) that we would be able to fulfill the four-page-Packing-List without having to order anything new. One would be wrong. Way wrong.

One would think that George the Younger would grow out if his things and Henry would grow in to them. One would be wrong there as well. Physically, this is a logical progression. Physically, it does happen with their normal daily at-home wear. In point of fact, Henry looks exactly like George did in 4th grade because he's wearing the same exact things George wore in 4th grade (although according to George, Henry looks like a Geek. In his mind's eye, he himself was significantly more stylish in those same clothes). But, camp-wear has unique properties that defy the laws of physics and logic. In other words, I still need to spend $1000.


First,I need to spend $1000 because there are Camp X activities which require the removal of camp gear sleeves. I get pictures from the camp nearly every day when they are gone. One day the pictures show all boys with sleeves on their shirts and the next day the photos capture a fair number of them in similar shirts curiously without sleeves. There are no photos of this mystical camp ritual where all sleeves are torn away. I guess it is worth noting that many of the boys are now sporting head-bands that strangely seem to be made out of the sleeve remnants. This camp ritual effectively renders said torn shirt useless for the next year's camping season. It is useless, since the same mystical ritual will happen again next year and you obvisouly cannot rip the sleeves off a shirt that already has no sleeves. Duh.

Second, each of them returns home after their camping experience with far fewer things than they left with. Camp is akin to a giant washing machine that systematically eats socks. Only this washing machine not only eats socks, but it consumes shirts, shorts and beach towels. Come to think of it, it has a special hankering for beach towels. We send 4 with each, they come back with one.

So, while I am peeved at having to order more shirts and shorts and, yes, head to Ikea where they sell the cheapest and most easily relinquished beach towels, Cloz does its best to make you feel a little better about it. How? They put your kid's pictures in the catalog.

Two years ago, George the Younger was on the cover. It was exciting for him, and somewhat humorous for us. Suffice to say that with the obvious exception of our two guys, the campers at Camp X were mainly nice Caucasian boys from the East Coast. Interestingly, they choose a photo of George for the cover. More interestingly, the diversity of the camp has broadened significantly over the past years. Obviously, a picture is worth a thousand new campers. Or so the adage goes. And more campers = more Cloz gear. Yippee! Everyone's a winner here.

Anywho, this year, both of the guys made the catalog. There was much oohing and awing! Look! We are FAMOUS!! George the Younger is highlighted on the sock page. I am curious whether this was intentional. Historically I have never ordered socks from their outfit. According to the four-page-packing-list, I am required to send 20 pairs of socks to camp. Upon returning, George the Younger typically brings home about 5 full pairs of socks of his own and about 10 odd socks of unknown origin. All look like they were used to clean the latrines while they were there. I buy the cheapest disposable socks I can find.

Henry made the back page. He is wrapped in a Cloz towel. This is the one towel that I ordered from Cloz the first year and it has made it back and forth from camp for three consecutive summers. It is undoubtedly a magical towel.